Hostel surfing at 30? That’s not sad at all

MANILA, Philippines - At 630 p.m., I stood up from my corner of the hostel’s common room. I had just finished broadcasting this supposed life event on my timeline, doing solid time on social media before I did what I came all the way to Reykjavik for: watch the homecoming show of Sigur Ros. Doors were opening at 7 p.m., at the auditorium just behind Reykjavik City Hostel, where I was staying. As I was gathering my things and cleaning my corner, I was surprised to see several others do the same. In the common area, a South American couple put on extra layers of clothing. A group of Australians were finishing their beers. A few Japanese were rummaging through their pockets, looking for their concert tickets. I was, in fact, waiting for my ex-roommate, a Canadian who got transferred to another room that morning, to show up.

“Are you all going to Sigur Ros?” I asked no one in particular. “Yeah!” was the enthusiastic answer from Ben, who, I learned later on, was German. My ex-roomie — I can’t believe I forgot his name! — showed up a few minutes later with his new roomies, a couple of Londoners. We were all there for Sigur Ros’ show, which was the last gig of the week-long Iceland Airwaves Festival.

Quickly, the common room was abuzz. Where are you from? Where are you going? Are you here for Iceland Airwaves? Which bands have you seen? Where? I couldn’t help myself; a smile crept across my face. Here was The Big Why, the one that mostly answered the loaded question: Why do you travel alone? Here was answer to the persistent “Why are you always staying at hostels?”

I know, I know, there seems to be something amiss about a 30-year-old doing the very collegiate hostel route, traveling by herself. Many times on the road, I felt it strange, too, to be hanging out with college students, or fresh graduates, or fresh grads applying for their post-grads.

Earlier on this two-week European tour, for instance, in Amsterdam, I stumped two Slovenians when I told them I was 31. “Oh, you don’t look it,” Luka, one of them, said, his expression suddenly changing to one that hinted of respect reserved for, um, older people. I think he was only 22. Before that, at an R-18 coffee shop, a flirtatious French baget asked me how old I was. “I…am… old enough,” I coughed out. “I’m old enough to be here, too,” he smiled that high school jock-type of smile. I let the conversation fizzle out.

It’s funny how some people react to age 30, more so to 30-year-olds taking on the hostel route, going on what we think is an adventure befitting a confused 20-something. Because at 30, I should know myself already, right? And pub crawls should already have lost their charm. Breakfast should be more than cereal and chocolate milk and solo travels should’ve lost their shimmer. At 30, I should have someone with whom I can travel, or a friend somewhere in the world to travel to. At 30, I should able to afford something proper, right? Rrrright...

Hostel accommodations for a two-week European vacation were all my bank account allowed me. Maybe Europe is way out of my reach — I could probably have afforded proper accommodations if I confined my travels to some place nearer, or made my vacations shorter. But at this age, when happy hours have become as monotonous as Monday mornings, and Saturdays are spent recovering from Friday night, and Sundays, from Saturdays, and friends are paying mortgages or having babies or moving away, I suppose we have to be reaching as far out as we possibly can.

The idea is to prove that there’s more to life than beating deadlines, paying credit card bills, and nursing hangovers. Perhaps, too, the idea is to prove that there’s more to life than good thread count on those fantastic sheets, or surrounding yourself with designer furniture, or swallowing a whole constellation of Michelin stars.

Perhaps the fact that I have very little where I am is what makes me travel the way I do. The idea that I’ll never see bands I love in Manila constantly pushes me to head out to hardly-thought-of destinations like Reykjavik or Copenhagen or Stockholm. The fact that most of my friends are attending to a different set of priorities makes me want to go out there and make new ones!

And there’s no better way to make new friends than by sharing the sometimes-ugly, mostly-grand experiences you can only find on the road, by way of hostels — like sharing joints (in Amsterdam), crummy bathrooms (in London), shitty weather (in Copenhagen), sudden storms (in Reykjavik), the experience of traveling to see our favorite band (wherever I happen to be), seeing our favorite band (ditto), being in the common room when hostel employees suddenly put on good music and having everyone there sing and/or cheer: “I love this song!” “You have this, too?” “They’re my favorite!”

I don’t think you can ever be too old for this. And besides, who was it who said, “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood?”